


Dinner for Three

by whosyourmaster



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternative Universe - FBI, Bodyguard, Cat Burglars, Dinner, Innuendo, Multi, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 14:58:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18252182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whosyourmaster/pseuds/whosyourmaster
Summary: A series of dinner dates between a bodyguard, art thief and mob princess.





	Dinner for Three

              “Napoleon Solo?” A young hostess, with a bit too much Chanel number 5 clinging to her collar, greeted him as he shuffled in out of the hot summer rain. “Yes.” Doing his best to shoulder off his raincoat without getting any water on his pewter gray windowpane suit jacket. The coat rack was already full, so one of the women behind the host table whisked his away silently to be stored safely. Taking a moment, he inspected himself in the mirror behind the hostess stand. He was proud to see that his perfectly gelled hair managed to keep its shape, even having two soft curls grazing his forehead.

“Your party has already arrived, I will show you to them.” Her ponytailed hair nearly snapping him in the face with how fast she swiveled around. His leather Salvatore Ferragamos squeaking over the tiled floor, an intricate netted pattern of Crema Marfil and dark emerald marble. Diners were leaned in close to each other, drinking wine and exchanging stories, all in low lighting from golden teardrop chandeliers.

He saw her just behind a large gold room divider. The distance and geometric metalwork blurring the definition of her face, but he still recognized her. Brown hair, quaffed up top into a ponytail, was far stiffer and more structured looking than the natural soft wave it had only days ago. Now, everything had its place, fitting together into the image of a prim and proper princess in her cranberry red, ribbon detailed, Gucci shift. A bold color that stood out against the golds, browns, and emeralds of the restaurant.

“Miss. Teller, Mr. Solo.” The hostess said like a serf to a queen, delegating all honors to the young woman sipping from a snifter. That was when Solo noticed a man that he is frankly stunned even managed to disappear into the background. He was massive; barrel-chested, straight-backed, square-shouldered, and the blank face of a man hiding too many emotions. His soft navy turtleneck and cinnamon suede jacket did little to soften his hard edges. This man was the Berlin wall personified; barricading posture, barb wire stare, and probably a minefield type of personality.

“How do you know my name?” He saw no point in the pleasantries as he was not in the business of being summoned to random Italian restaurants by fashionable but menacing couples. He took his seat and settled back to convey an air of ease.

“It isn’t hard to find out the name of the most flamboyant fine arts thief in North America and Europe.” She smiled, brushing her curls over her shoulder and out of the way. She looked pleased with herself, knowing more than she ought to. Though the level of comfort in her posture hinted at her being used to this advantage over others. “I’ve yet to make it to South America. Next summer maybe. I’ll have your finest scotch.” He said, waving off the waiter before they even had a chance to open their mouth.

“So, what do I owe the honor of meeting such a beautiful woman again.” He didn’t spare a glance with the pleasantry as he skimmed the menu, it had a wide assortment of Italian food all exorbitantly overpriced for the subpar ingredients the dishes were sure to contain. “Not one for pleasant conversations?” Miss. Teller snarked, flipping open her menu in a huff. “Not with people who somehow manage to slip my locks to leave notes in my home like a common stalker.”

“Watch your tongue.” The big guy threatened, in a surprisingly deep and thick accent. His body was tightening up, coiling ready to spring, his eyes pinning Solo. The only part of his body that was moving was his finger tapping cross the table top.

“What can I get you all to eat?” The group one by one ordered an assortment of overpriced meats and pasta. Quickly, but never quick enough, the waiter scuttled off to inform the kitchen, leaving the unlikely table guests to their awkward staring contest. With no one willing to even fane amicable small talk Solo just bit the bullet. “So again, why are we here? I don’t find that my damsels in distress usually hunt down their princes’ and leave mildly threating dinner invitations on their pillow.”

Her fingers stroked the stem of her wine glass, leveling Solo with a calculating look. Leaning forward, pressing toward his direction with a stare that could make a thousand men fall for her. “I, in fact, would like to thank you.” She finally admitted settling back into her seat. “Thank me for what?” “You know what for.” She shook her head in exasperation, the light bouncing off the fake diamonds inlaid in her acrylic earrings. “I do, but I’d like to hear you say it.”

Pregnant pauses, even in busy restaurants will all the ambient noise of the world, would forever be awkward for those participating in them. The other man seemed to be trying to break the table in half with just the strength of his tapping index finger. Exhaling through her nose she finally capitulated. “Thank you… for pulling me out of the way of that drive by. I would be dead if it wasn’t for you.” With all the grateful tone of an addict to their intervention party.

“You are most welcome, Miss. Teller.” He would let her off easy, not forcing her to change her tone. Counting his luck, either she would refuse or her companion would throw him over the table and break him, and not in the pleasurable way that one would hope for.

“the Vinciguerra family… my family is thanking you and we owe you a debt of gratitude.” He almost sloshed his wine on his best shirt. “Vinciguerra…” Eyeing his companions, he planted his feet just behind his knees, ready to kick off and run. Eyeing the surroundings he hoped the crowd would keep him safe from any publicly overt violence, but now he wouldn’t be able to eat his Spaghetti Alle Vongole. “They are even willing to overlook the fact that you were in the process of ‘borrowing’ one of my families more prized artworks.”

 “Why? I’d assume they much rather have a chat with me about it.” Miss. Teller simply nodded in agreement. “Mrs. Vinciguerra is feeling lenient since you managed to save her daughter’s life.” The man beside him finally contributed, his voice deep with that rough accent. It wasn’t Italian but it wasn’t fully American either, even with the proficiency in English. He sounded almost physically pained with such an admission.

With a surprising amount of aggressive grace, Miss. Teller rose from her seat, slinging her mini purse over a shoulder. “I need to use the powder room. Play nice, Illya.” The demand for doing nothing for Solo’s nerves. In fact, the exact opposite, making images of his broken body in a carpet bag and ten feet under became a very real possibility. He had heard of far worse happening to people who crossed the Vinciguerra family.

“Is this when you make thinly veiled threats so the wiretaps don’t catch on?” He was never one for avoiding trouble, in fact, his kindergarten teacher once wrote ‘active and disturbing interest in causing all sorts of trouble for himself and others.’ The man beside him, Illya, tightened his shoulders and barreled out his chest, almost inflating like a parade balloon, taking up more space.

“As she said, the family is in your debt. One time and one time only.”

“Right, because I am some knight in shining armor for her?”

“More like a drunken cowboy who got lucky.” He was glaring pointedly at the last dregs of the drink in Solo’s hand. His thick accent making him sound even more high, mighty and insufferably formal than Solo cared for, like those uppity businessmen that inquire about his services. They ultimately always wanted a discounted price in exchange for telling their other snobby friends at the yachting club about Solo and his skills in acquiring them their new renaissance masterpiece. All of them were practically begged for Solo to knock them down a peg or two… or ten. “Tell me how does a comrade become a family member of the Vinciguerra’s.”

There was a dangerous glint in his eyes as Solo called him comrade, though he kept his face blank and jaw clenched. “Miss. Teller needed a bodyguard and I am very skilled.”

“KGB?” Illya didn’t even bother to respond, instead of adjusting his sleeve cuffs like a posh prat that all good comrades were supposed to condemn. “Clearly you were hired for your conversational prowess.” He kept poking the bear, just waiting to see him snap. The waiter, as if having bugged the table themselves, found the perfect time to deliver their meals.

Unlike himself and their female companion, Illya had no food or drink in front of him. When asked he claimed, “I do not eat while I am working.” Once Miss. Teller returned, they all ate with little fuss, putting out your boilerplate small talk and trying to all appear far more normal and personable than they truly were. The drinks flowed as the conversation became stilted but thankfully it ended quickly. Solo could make his escape from Miss. Teller’s prying questions and Illya’s sharpshooter eyes.

“Please grab my coat,” He told the waiter, who continued in silence to fulfill the groups' whims. “Well, thank you for the meal, if you will excuse me, I will be heading home.” He stated, placing his folded napkin aside and rising from his seat. Placing on his most gentlemanly smile he scooped up Miss. Teller’s soft unmanicured hand. Clean yet slightly smelling of engine oil, was what he noticed as he pressed a steady and cordial kiss to the top of her palm. Returning her hand to the table top he turned and offered Illya a mildly completive handshake.

The pair kept watching him as he accepted his raincoat from the waiter. Aware of how on display he was, he did his best to put on his goat on in as attractive a manner as possible. It would be a shame to leave the audience disappointed. Once buttoned up and ready to brave the storm outside, he turned to leave with his head held high and a swagger in his stance. Maybe he’d even throw that hostess a little wink for the trouble. Suddenly though, he was face to face Miss. Teller’s bodyguard. Her very angry looking, bone breaking, Berlin wall style bodyguard.

“Give me back her ring.” It wasn’t a question at all, It was an absolute, unequivocal, demand. Miss. Teller looked down at her hand, surprised to find her ring finger bare of the Bulgari canary yellow diamond ring that usually rested there. Her eyes darkened, the low light making them to appear nearly black, as she leveled him with an unamused glare. Tilting his head trying to look innocent he weighted his options. how long could he outrun this man? Which escape route would be better, the kitchen or the front door? Would the big guy follow him all the way home? How many broken bones was he willing to risk?

A large hand clamped down on his shoulder, trapping him to his spot on the floor. Well there went all his options. Sighing through his nose, he pulled the multi-million dollar ring out of his breast pocket. She accepted it delicately, putting it back on her right hand. “And my watch.” A single beautifully manicured eyebrow lifted in speculation. Pouting like a naughty child he pulled the watch off his wrist, handing it over to the brick wall. The watch was promptly snatched from his hands and his shoulder was released. “Well, I would like to say this was lovely. However... Good night Miss Teller. Red Peril.”

Miss. Teller let out a loud snort, her fingers just barely concealing her smiling lips. Her bodyguard was less impressed and grouched out “Cowboy,” as he readjusts his watch. Controlling her smile, Miss. Teller watched him walk away with nothing more than a soft and teasing “Good night, Mr. Solo.”

* * *

 

“You really must stop leaving these lovely invites on my pillow. You could give men like me too many hopes.” He started with, tossing the crème color card stock onto her empty setting plate. With a lipstick kiss and all, “some would think you like to tease.”

“How was your dinner with Mrs. Vinciguerra.?” Miss. Teller asked, clearly choosing to ignore any questions of her methods. “Titillating, if not a little shocking to have happened. Is mildly aggressive dinner parties something of a family tradition?” When no one took his bait, raising to the thinly veiled insult, he just kept on talking. “It is surprisingly an interesting business opportunity for me.”

Miss. Teller simply gave a nod to her bodyguard, Illya was sitting beside them and seemingly found the one shadow in the restaurant to lurk. Again, they refused to respond so he just kept on chatting. “I would have apricated the heads up though.” His chair was wobbly against the slightly warped old wood floor, while attractive to the rustic Italian aesthetic, it was a bit of an annoyance. “Being thrown into a car is less than pleasurable, even if the other passage is as striking as Victoria.”

“Yes, Victoria has always been a great patron of the arts.”

“Seems so. She also seemed fond of you. We talked about you quite a bit.” Miss. Teller unattractively snorted into her martini glass at that, even across the table he could see a hint of an eye roll from her. “She is fond of my abilities.” And that tone of voice hinted at a very juicy and dramatic story. He had to know more. “Only your abilities? She sounded like a loving stepmother.”

“A stepmother who murdered my father and forced me to be her daughter.” Fascinating. Well, the family was known for their viciousness when they really wanted something. Whatever the girl had, it was clearly of great value to the family. Though the killing of a father seemed excessive, so he must have pissed them off somehow. But how?

“Gambling debts.” Is all Illya said to answer the unspoken question hanging off Solo’s lips. Miss. Teller, for her part, didn’t seem a bit bothered by the admitted faults of her kin. Though, from that moment on the conversation took a hard steer and avoided all talk of families for the rest of the evening. Instead, they chatted about cars and art and why Solo’s room was littered with every possible type of underthings.

* * *

 

“All alone, Peril? What happened to never let your princess out of your sight.” Illya looked mildly uncomfortable as Solo pulled out the leather mid-century modern moss chair. The man had tossed his suede bomber into the empty chair beside him, forcing Solo to sit across from him. “Powder room. She demanded I come sit. Wanted to make a grand entrance.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint.” Solo turned in his seat to stare down the length of the restaurant, in the direction of the powder room. A handful of moments ticked by, filled with the waitress pouring them water, strangers walked by on the sidewalk, the clicking of glass and silverware, and Illya’s tapping heel against the ceramic tiled floor. Finally, just as his eyes were starting to lose focus and become bored, she came out.

The door opened wide, her short legs striding as long as possible in an almost glide towards them. She had gotten rid of her winter coat somewhere, hopefully not left in the ladies’ room for whoever decided to use it next.

The sun was bouncing off the fresh snow that has coated the roads overnight, making the windows look like floor to ceiling lighting fixtures. The brightly lit storefront backlight Gabby in the most teasing of ways. The soft harvest gold color fabric of her tent dress was made virtually sheer, exposing her matching bodycon slip underneath. Every subtle curve of her boyish body was on display. Her hips were swaying in an attractive exaggerated figure eight as she came towards them.

He could hear Illya behind him, he had stopped fidgeting and instead was opting to take deep and controlled breathes through his nose. “Grand indeed.” Was all he could think of in response to the beauty before him. In a smooth swift movement, he stood up, ready to pull out the chair like a gentleman. Illya attempted the same, yet managed to bang his legs against the table and slosh water out of their cups. “You are looking stunning, Miss. Teller.”

“Thank you, Mr. Solo.” Her cheeks were lightly flushed, high on her cheekbones, making her look young and glowing. With a wide charming smile, he took up the cabernet bottle, letting the wine flow. The restaurant was romantic and sparkling, with a soft jazz band in the corner and the various anniversary couple necking in the back corner.

Miss teller, laughed and teased both her companions this way and that till the wine and the music became a heady cocktail in Solo’s brain. Illya's eyes glittered over top the edge of his wine glass, heatedly staring at them both. Solo for his part even took the chance to hand feed them both from his plate, enjoying the different ways their lips wrapped around his fork. Miss. Teller’s was soft yet determined, smudging glossy coral lipstick along with metal. Illya’s was just harsh enough to remove that stain once again.

The waitress placed the bill between Solo and Illya, which was promptly picked up by his table mate. “Well, this has been a wonderful evening,” Miss. Teller chatted away as Illya pulled out his card, Solo spotted the small square foil trojan package peeking out. Something he is positive he hadn’t seen at any other dinner and was now there for a very good reason. “such a shame to see it end so soon,” He offered up in agreement to her sentiment.

“Mr. Solo, would you like to join us for some drinks? Illya makes a sinfully good French 75.”

“Really? Is it strong enough? I must say I am a stickler for the classics and such a historical drink really should make me feel like I’m being hit by ww1 French 75mm field gun.”

“More like being pinned down by a Steyr SSG… 69.” Suddenly, Illya’s large hand landed atop Napoleon’s, almost completely covering his. A warm weight not so much pinning him down but urging him to not lift a finger without his permission. Rotating him palm he interlaced their fingers together, “That sounds truly wonderful.” 

* * *

 

“Gabby, didn’t anyone tell you it’s impolite to wear sunglasses at the breakfast table?” The sun was bright and sparkling against all the crème leather and glittering glassware of the French bistro. Gabby was perched in a white frock against the booth, not so much sipping her coffee as much as chugging ever least drop. Her white oversized circle sunglasses shielded her eyes from the strong sun and even stronger peer judgment.

“You would rather me keep them on than see what will happen if you try to remove them.” She grouched out, pointedly leveling him with her sternest scowls. He seemed content to keep teasing, running fingers along her neck, between her falling hair, pressing at hickies just barely concealed with makeup. Her scowl remained but she didn’t do much to stop him outside of small squirming.  
“Peril did a number on you too, hmmm? I, for one, won’t be able to wear my bathing suit anytime soon,” He remarked.

“It is November,” Illya stated behind the lip of his cup, filled to the brim with black coffee. “Pity I was hoping to show you.” Under the table, Napoleon toes the strong ridge of Illya’s ankle bone, everything on this man was bold and brash and strong and virile. “You have shown me quite enough Cowboy.” “I cherish the chance to see you in this new way,” Napoleon whispered in the Russian’s direction, batting his eyes ever so slightly for good measure. “More than what you saw last night?” Gabby asked, joining Napoleon’s foot to rub up under the cuff of Illya’s slacks, her Mary Janes curiously missing.

“You two are complete menaces.” He grumbled without a single emotion crossing his brow. His thighs clenched tight, trapping Napoleon’s foot between them. “Why Peril, that is no way to speak to your boss,” Napoleon scolded trying to escape the iron grip of Illya’s thighs. His lip quirked in a suave way as he refused to let go of his prize.

* * *

 

              Their table was cluttered with all manner of messy napkins, used cutlery, lipstick-stained glasses and the remains of a family size bowl of Carbonaro. The conversation was flowing as smoothly as the wine, full-bodied and red with passion, little splashes of laughter, dry with wit and all with the finish of the promise of continued pleasurable company.

“Victoria wants you to acquire something for her sculpture collection.” Gabby let out over the last few bites of pasta, her hard-set stare at the plate belayed her frustration. Napoleon dabbed this mouth with his napkin, humming in interest at the request.

“I want you to take Illya.” She said, before even telling him the details of his new mark. “I thought I did that last night.” The man in question coughed into his fist, trying to hide the sunburnt looking blush creeping up his neck. It looked wonderful on him.

After a silent moment of held breathing, he sighed through his nose. “I work alone.” There was a loud metallic clank as Gabby slapped now her cutlery onto the marble tabletop. “I don’t care what you did. Victoria wants you to steal this sculpture and I want Illya with you.”

He side eyed the man in question, sitting imposingly large, good looks and blonde hair attracting the eyes of lonely housewives and some husbands around them. “Do you even know how to be subtle enough for burglary?” Know the man was made for fights and intimidation but theft required a lighter touch. Both Gabby and Illya scowled at him. “Napoleon. I am serious. I don’t have a good feeling about this. I want Illya there so you can keep each other safe.”

Studying their almost grave faces he relented. “Fine, you can come with me. Wear black.” With that he stood up, only stopping his retreat when Gabby’s surprisingly firm grip wrapped around his wrist. Her eyes were dark cold and steely as they stared up at him. “You both better come back, you understand me, Napoleon?”

* * *

 

“I don’t like this,” Illya admitted, as he ripped apart the slice of bread he took from the basket at the center of their table. “I don’t either, Illya.” She agreed to sip from her wine, keeping a wary eye on the open front door. “He will be fine. He wasn’t hurt.” Gabby hoped he wasn’t lying to protect her. When she heard that the heist went under, she had to be held back by Illya to keep her from going to find Napoleon herself. Every terrible consequence crossing her mind, Napoleon beaten by police, locked in a cell, being interrogated for hours or dead in the street from a cop with an itchy trigger finger

The hostess headed towards them and thankfully behind her was a Napoleon who appeared happy and healthy. “Miss. Teller, Mr. Kuryakin, it’s wonderful to see you again.” he sounded overly jovial, talking much louder than he ever would deem polite in public. “Napoleon, how have you been?” As he went to kiss her hand, she felt the scrape of a paper slide into her sleeve, so subtle she knew it was supposed to be a secret.

“Quite fine, laying low. Taking some time off, a vacation was in order.” He was being weirdly formal, it had been a while since he last pulled out the posh dialect around them. Illya shot her a look, picking up on the oddity as well, “I…  we were surprised when you asked to meet.”

The waiter came to take their drink orders as they continued their stilted conversation. “Yes. I got lonely and tired of waiting so I just took the initiative for once.” He was lying, openly to their face. She knew something was going and hopefully what was in her sleeve would tell her what it was.

“If you excuse me, I have to use the ladies’ room.” Quickly, without either of her men responding to her, she left the table heading to the bathroom in the back. Locking herself into one of the stalls, sitting on the seat, she fished out the paper from her cuff. ‘Wearing a wire. FBI after Victoria and husband. Don’t incriminate yourself. Act normal,’ was scrawled hastily across the paper.

Shit. Double shit. Looking up, her reflection instantly looked tired, her bags peeking out under her concealer. Act normal? Nothing about their entire relationship was normal. Most women don’t get saved by a flamboyant cat burglar from being shot by a rival mob and then proceeds to demand that the man sees you almost once a week for ‘dinner’. They were not nor...

He said to act normal. He meant their normal. Their normal… alright. He wanted to give them their normal than she would give those FBI buggers a real show. Turning on her heels she made a straight line to their table, gracefully folding into her chair. “Did you miss me, boys?” She asked leaning in close, lowering her eyes suggestively and rubbing her foot up Illya’s leg. He wouldn’t know what was happening but hopefully, she could get him on board without uttering a sound.

“Every moment without you Miss. Teller is absolute suffering.” Napoleon’s chair let out a godawful squeal as he shifted it closer to Miss. Teller’s. “You are too kind… Mr. Solo.”  He kissed her hand, which she quickly returned with a peck on the cheek, but dangerously close to his lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man in an ill-fitted pinstripe suit drop the silverware out of his hands onto the floor. His short-cropped hair, comically fake glasses, and solo table setting gave him away as a terrible undercover cop. Well, that and also the plastic the flesh colored wire to his earpiece catching the candlelight.

“So, I was thinking,” He slid his hand up her wrist, playing with the gold Chanel bangles along the way, “Do you think, we could go to your villa tonight?” Hopefully, she could get the feds what they wanted and they could leave them alone to enjoy what was turning out to be a pleasurable leavening. “For a drink, or something a bit… more entertaining.”

Gabby gave both him and Illya a charming smile, her eyes flicking between the two of them. She bit her lips and twirled her hair, portraying every overly girly flirtation the magazines dictated her to know. “Yes, I think so, the Vincequerras are on a business trip until Wednesday. They mentioned something about an Appalachian meeting.” Bingo, she could see a poorly disguised undercover cop whisper rapidly into his own watch.

“That sounds like a wonderful trip,” Napoleon kept going, putting on a façade of over interest. “Oh yes, the mountains must be beautiful this time of year.” Illya finally had something to say, he had a constipated look on his face, so he was clearly thinking.

“Well, it is very nice of them for letting us use their luxuries master bed and jacuzzi bath that easily fits three people.”  Gabby wanted to find the quickest excuse to leave this place. Get this damn wire off Napoleon, get out from under the feds thumb and hopefully get into a warm bed with these two. Gabby placed her hands atop Illya’s as well creating an interesting semicircle of affection. Napoleon smiled to them both, “Afterwards I could even give you a lovely Swedish massage that I actually learned from a Swede.”

The laugh Gabby let out was light and bubbly like the popping of the finest champagne. “You, Mr. Solo, are God’s gift to womanhood.” She positively purred. “Don’t say that Miss. Teller, it is dangerous to stroke his ego so vigorously.” Napoleon's eyes near twinkle in sudden joy at hearing such a poorly concealed innuendo fall from Russian lips.

“Well boys, if you are interested, would you take care of business for me?”

* * *

 

The breeze was warm but brisk as it rushed under Gabby’s skirt hem, keeping her suntanned skin cool in the heat. Her mojito glass sweated, creating a pool for her to skim her fingers across, aimlessly drawing patterns on the table. Napoleon reclined back, tipping down the brim of his Panama hat while scanning the paper in front of him with a smile. A copy of the New York Times was set, folded and neat on the table corner, the bold headline splashed front and center _ARREST AT ‘APPALACHIAN MEETING’ OF NOTORIOUS MOBSTER LEADERS subheader: 64 mobsters including Barbara, Genovese and Vinciguerra family arrested in the biggest round up of a National Criminal Syndicate._

“Well, we are lucky that you could drive us across the border so quickly,”  Illya admitted, busying his hands by fiddling with a piece of driftwood like some runaway prisoner stereotype from a cheap Hollywood film.

“We can probably never go back to the US, not with the rest of the family knowing your hand in their arrest,” Napoleon added, picking up Gabby’s drink, finishing it. Only slightly taking pleasure in the outraged squawking their princess made in. “Can’t go to Italy ever again for that matter.” Which was a real pity, he had his eye on a set of Di Vinci sketches at the Gallerie dell'Accademia.

“Well, you finally made it to South America. I hear there is a lovely modern art museum in town if you boys would like to join me.”

**Author's Note:**

> A story for Rooneytoony
> 
> If you liked what you read check out  
> https://onthemeander.tumblr.com/post/183499568728/onthemeander-now-open-hello-lovelies-i-am


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